


on the physics of yearning

by Acacius



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: & my own personal headcanon that crowley likes physics, Biblical Themes (Abrahamic Religions), Character Study, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Gen, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), a rambling mess of a fic brought to u by adhd, an egg metaphor that overstays its welcome aksdjfds, can't believe i'm using my masters degree to write science concepts into fanfic but here we are, insufferable prose meets biblical illusions meets science ft. ineffable husbands, mentions of physics but also. like. done poorly, sometimes u just want a touch of angst w/ ur fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-07 02:53:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20302246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acacius/pseuds/Acacius
Summary: Aziraphale cooks breakfast while a large, red-bellied snake suns itself on the kitchen table. Or, alternatively: Aziraphale makes sunny-side up eggs the human way and thinks about the universe as an eggshell while Crowley remembers all the people he’s lost to Heaven—and will inevitably lose—and asks for something he feels is selfish.Or, even more succinctly: confessions are said one morning after the apocalypse-that-wasn’t.





	on the physics of yearning

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by ~3 months of stu(dying) for a garbage fire of an exam that rhymes w/ 'mrat.' if u want like,, an actual good representation of thermodynamic concepts, this is definitely not the place. specifically, i read a passage in one of my textbooks that explained entropy using a broken egg analogy & it was oddly poetic & has been bouncing about in my mind since. 
> 
> the quote below is an excerpt from Mary Oliver's poem "Thirst," bc her poetry just gets me™

_"Another morning and I wake with thirst_

_for the goodness I do not have."_

.

. 

It is another day in which the world has not ended and Aziraphale, clad in a light blue robe and matching slippers, is making breakfast the old-fashion way. Miracle-less. The effort of the act, the strict adherence to the chemistry and physics of making something as simple as sunny-side up eggs makes him feel alive. And what a feeling it is.

The very human blood and bone inside of him, filling the hollow places where divinity and darkness meet, thrum together in a song not unlike the heavenly choirs of Heaven. His heart beats a steady rhythm, a complex orchestra of enzymes, proteins, and hormones, each a treasured note of a harmony written by the same hands that once molded life from river clay. All humans—and all decidedly supernatural creatures who squeeze themselves into a corporation, light and dark bursting at the seams of their ill-fitting suits—have a sliver of Heaven inside them, a gentle reminder that creation is, first and foremost, a thing that is passed down. Something privy to all—not just angels or demons.

Humans have their own special line to Heaven, have studied it, tamed it in some respects, and called it science. It’s different from magic tricks or sleight-of-hand; it cannot be perfected, it does not bend easily to human wants, and, more often than naught, gifts more questions in return for answers. It’s all a bit too ineffable for Aziraphale's tastes (though certainly not Crowley’s, if his sneaky perusal of botany-based textbooks at Aziraphale’s bookshop are any indication) and makes him feel like a voyeur of sorts, as if he's flipping through God’s diary. They are Her fingerprints on every cell, Her private blueprints for a species so unlike anything She had made before or after them. They were made to be the afterimage of divinity, so unique in their loneliness and desire to create. After wandering earth for some time now, Aziraphale supposed he shared similar desires; that lonely ache, the want to exist in forms other than his own. 

He knew he could never fully understand Her—not in the way that mattered, the way that justified floods and plagues and pillars of salt—but he also knows himself. He loves learning, knows the temptation of certain knowledge, the voracity that follows, the way he’d follow that red thread that runs through humanity to its natural end no matter the consequence. And if what he found at the end was a God he did not recognize, that did not value love above all else, then, well… he feared it would destroy him entirely.

So the science textbooks remain untouched by the angel who is content to watch nature documentaries on the small T.V. in the backroom of a bookshop. And if a demon with certain poorly hidden proclivities for softness curled up with him on the sofa, all long-limbed and lax in the angel’s gentle embrace, then that was enough. All Aziraphale ever wanted was Crowley in whatever way he would have him, though that admission was still fairly new and his cheeks still reddened at the thought.

“Angel,” a sleep-thick voice rasps, as if unused to speaking. Or, at least, speaking with vocal cords not suited to human speech. “I’m hungry.”

His voice is enough to tether the angel to the present task at hand, though his mind still wanders somewhat—a byproduct of 6000 years of traveling to and fro upon earth, often alone. As expected, it tended to turn one’s thoughts towards rumination.

“Of course, my dear. Eggs and bacon?” 

The snake hisses softly in affirmation, circling Aziraphale lazily until he is coiled mischievously at the man’s feet. Crowley sways, looking perhaps to an outsider akin to a cobra moments before striking its prey, and rears up to press a teasing kiss, a fleeting flick of his cold tongue, to the nape of Aziraphale’s neck.

“Thanksss, Assshiraphale,” he whispers in his ear, the angel’s name coming out garbled due to the natural lisp of his snake form. It wasn’t easy trying to talk with a mouthful of venomous fangs, after all.

Aziraphale gives a surprised gasp, turning to playfully admonish the snake who is already slinking away to his favorite sunning spot in the kitchen. His words fall on deaf ears it seems, as Crowley merely coils further into a ball, wiggling his tail in the same way someone might wave a comment away with their hand. Aziraphale shakes his head fondly all the same, turning back to the fridge.

Creation, Aziraphale thinks, as he fetches a carton of eggs from the fridge, comes in many forms. But they all—at the nail-bitten quick of it—require a redistribution of energy. Peach-tinged light fills the small kitchen, falling through the window to warm the table where the red-bellied snake lounges lethargically, half his body sprawled on the chair beneath him. For Crowley to exist like this, as a dark-scaled serpent, he had to will the shape into existence, matter and energy relocating at his command. It's beautiful, he thinks, the way Crowley transforms. How he embraces change, lives fast, but always comes slithering back to him. No matter what form Crowley took, he always recognized him, knew him by the sound of his voice, the tilt of his head, the way he moved, always circling him, never touching--until, well, now. 

Aziraphale cracks a brown-speckled egg against the counter, feels the shell give way under his hand in a jagged line. When he turns back to the stove he sees that the frying pan is hot and covered in oil already, and he smiles appreciatively at the dozing snake. He always did hate waiting for the old (or practically antique, as Crowley called it) gas stove to warm up and technically it was Crowley who performed the miracle, so he supposed it was alright to continue on even if he had wanted to make breakfast the human way.

As the first egg sizzles in the pan, he recalls a conversation he had with Crowley after watching a space documentary one evening. 

* * *

_“It’s all just broken eggs in the end,” Crowley had muttered, holding Aziraphale’s hand as they lounged on the sofa. He toyed with the wing-embossed ring on the angel’s pinky finger, still surprised to find that the metal did not burn him even though it was a piece of Heaven, a marker of celestial goodness in the same way that gold flecked Uriel’s face, in the same way that Gabriel had violet eyes._

_“What was that, dearest?” _

_The demon gestured loosely at the air, one brow raised. “Y’know… the universe. It’s like a big, broken egg.” _

_“I’m sorry, but I don’t think I quite follow.” _

_Crowley sighed, disentangling himself from Aziraphale with obvious reluctance. With a snap of his fingers, he had an egg held between his thumb and forefinger. “So, what do you see here?” _

_Aziraphale cocked his head. “Well, an egg, of course.” _

_Crowley nods. “And what would happen if I applied pressure to the shell?” _

_“It would break.” _

_“Exactly. But can you predict how the egg will crack? Will it be one clean fissure? Or maybe I’d crush it too hard and get yolk all over your ancient sofa.” _

_The angel wrinkled his nose. “Please, don’t.” _

_“The point is,” he started, miracling a carton of eggs into his hands. He opened the carton, revealing a dozen eggs in different states of brokenness. “There’s plenty of ways for something to break and really only one way for something to not be broken. Which is why the universe is always teetering towards disorder, no angelic or demonic influence needed.” _

_Aziraphale frowned in thought. “So what you’re saying is that it’s easier for things to be broken than to be fixed.” _

_Crowley shrugged, slinking an arm around Aziraphale’s waist, pressing closer until his cheek rested comfortably against the angel’s chest. “That’s one way to look at it, I suppose,” he said, voice muffled, the open carton of eggs somehow finding their way onto the coffee table without Crowley even touching them._

_Aziraphale watched the eggs knit themselves back together until not a single crack remained. Still, he noticed the subtle way that Crowley’s eyes had changed at the effort of it all, the white of his sclera bleeding a molten yellow—and it’s not the first time either. There is the memory of a white-feathered dove, the way that Crowley had taken the animal into his hands and breathed life back to its prone form, ducking behind his sunglasses at the angel’s awestruck gaze. _

_“It’s always been hard on you, hasn’t it?” Aziraphale said softly. “Mending things. Performing demonic miracles that aren’t really… demonic.” _

_Crowley’s lips twitched briefly before smoothing into a thin line. “It’s not that. I just don’t want Death breathing down my neck. Nasty breath, that one. Like rot. Or entropy.”_

_“Entropy?” Aziraphale says, though it’s not what he wants to ask. He wants to ask: “Darling, why do you still hide parts of yourself away?” because while Crowley never lied to him, he did not always tell the whole truth. As if the truth of him has festered into a disease, into an ever-spilling oil slick. He doesn’t want Aziraphale to see it. So he hides it. Like now._

_There are times when he speaks and there is an anxious settling of truth in the silence afterwards. The same way an old house settles on its shifting foundation, trying to keep itself up on rotting boards. The echoes of it—Crowley’s pain, the things he keeps to himself—whistle like wind through a broken window. Sometimes the pain makes heavier things fall—bookshelves of grief, paintings of a time before the Garden—and Aziraphale is allowed a keyhole glimpse into the house that the Fall made of him. He uses the key the demon had given him after the not-apocalypse, lets himself into the doorway of Crowley’s heart, returns the books to their shelves, straightens the paintings, and mends the windows the best he can. It’s not always enough, but he knows that Crowley is telling him more now, leaning on him, seeing him as bedrock. _

_“Mhmm, so there was this bloke, Arthur something-or-another, that talked about time as an arrow. Entropy guides that arrow. Tells it where to point. When you see a cracked egg, you know time has passed—the egg had to be whole at some point to be cracked later. And the egg can’t be un-cracked, just like how you can’t change the past. At least not normally. When we do miracles, we’re mucking around with the physics of things on earth. It’s just something I try to keep in mind. Would hate to lose earth 2.0 after our little antichrist went through the effort of bringing it back.” _

_“Well,” Aziraphale replied, voice heavy with adoration for the demon sprawled beside him. “Like I’ve said: you truly are a kind person, Crowley.”_

_For once, Crowley doesn’t tell him to shut it. He smiles a sort of private smile, one that Aziraphale feels like sunlight against his skin. It feels warm. Like love. Like Crowley. Like the moment he first saw those slanted pupils on top of that crumbling Garden wall. Like every moment afterwards in the demon’s presence. _

* * *

Aziraphale slips the spatula underneath the egg, skillfully maneuvering it onto the plate with a theatrical flick of his hand. He goes to prepare the next egg the same as the first, but hits the smooth shell with more force than intended. It should have splattered spectacularly onto him, all runny yellow yolk and whatnot down the front of his black apron (a gag gift from Crowley; it had a red pitchfork and horns stitched into the front of it. Aziraphale, consequently, wore it every time he cooked.)—but it doesn’t.

The yolk travels in a fluid arc, falling into the pan with a loud pop. Aziraphale turns his head, surprised to see that the once dozing snake was now very much human-shaped and dressed in what he wore to bed.

“You alright?” Crowley asks, chin resting in his palms, elbows pressed against the kitchen table. He looks torn between staying at the table with his miracled cup of tea, at ease in the touch of early morning light, or sliding over to Aziraphale. He settles on propping his legs onto the chair adjacent to him, angling himself closer to where Aziraphale stands.

“Just fine. Thank you. It’s silly, really, but I’d have hated to ruin the lovely apron you gave me. I know that it’s _supposed _to be ruined, but I’d prefer to keep it clean as long as possible.”

“Nothing wrong with a little sentimentality, angel. I think you’ve earned it. The earth was almost discorporated, after all.”

“And thank goodness we were there to stop it—through sheer incompetence.”

His words rouse a chuckle from Crowley who nods approvingly. “Speaking of which, when did you say the Tadfield lot wanted to come ‘round?”

“This Saturday,” Aziraphale supplies, attention returned to his cooking. “Adam’s family is taking a holiday in London. The rest of his friends are looking to visit the bookshop as well.” He pauses, brows furrowing. “Oh dear, I hope I have enough chairs for everyone.”

“If not, I can pop into a few shops nearby,” Crowley says, tossing a silent look at the new, sleek laptop he had bought specifically to perform more _demonic deeds, _as he had called them.

(Aziraphale, ever polite, did not point out that there was no need for Crowley to do anything evil, given that both of their respective head offices would likely remain firmly in Heaven or Hell after their rather theatrical performances.)

These heinous deeds, so far, included creating a social media blog where he offered advice to the young and impressionable. It was actually sound advice for the most part, to Aziraphale’s pleasant surprise, save for the time he told a young woman who was worried about an abusive ex to draw a summoning circle in her room. A few weeks later, the angel had found a rather bizarre headline scrawled across his daily newspaper, one that almost had him choke on his tea upon the first read. It wasn’t everyday that London, an urban city with more brick than greenery, made note of a giant, venomous snake. And especially in such a positive manner. _AN UNLIKELY HERO: LARGE SNAKE INCAPACITATES INTRUDER_, indeed, Aziraphale had thought, pressing his handkerchief against the tea stain on his lapel.

When pressed about his seemingly benevolent act, the demon had merely shrugged. “Perhaps this’ll awaken her latent desire to perform more occult activities. I did make sure to miracle in a few books. Can’t go wrong with _Solomon’s Key, _you know.” He had also miracled enough money for the woman to pay for her flat for the foreseeable future and beyond, stealing it from a particularly wealthy billionaire who wouldn’t even notice that it was gone, but he didn’t tell the angel about that… yet. He still had a reputation to uphold, after all.

“Ah, I’d have to disagree. You can most certainly go wrong with _Solomon’s Key. _Solomon being a prime example.”

Crowley hadn’t been able to respond with anything more than a strangled hissing noise. It was certainly demonic sounding in theory, but in actuality, it was absolutely endearing, especially when hissed sourly into Aziraphale’s chest.

Now, speaking of demonic deeds… 

“Oh, no, not this time, my dear boy,” Aziraphale tuts, not needing to turn around from the stove to know that the demon was _scheming_. He had a knack for reading Crowley’s silences, the space between what was said and what he chose to withhold. Not that the demon had a very good poker face (or aura) in the first place. “You are _not _going to order a dozen chairs from that _Amazonian _place and then request your money back—or, rather, _more _money than you originally spent on the items.” It’s a half-hearted admonishment, but old habits are hard to break and there was a small part of him that enjoyed their opposing dynamic—even if they were on the same side now.

“Amazon, Aziraphale. It’s called Amazon. Heav—Sata—_Someone’s_ sake, it’s not even a temptation. I specifically order products where all the profits go to the company and then I…” Crowley pauses, gesturing vaguely upwards. “Mess with the prices so that they lose money from my business. It’s genius.” Thanks to Crowley alone, Amazon’s stock had gone down roughly .0000001%, which was better than nothing he reasoned. 

“It’s absolutely _wicked_,” Aziraphale praises, handing Crowley his plate. The stove turns itself off while the angel presses a lingering kiss to the demon’s cheek. “You’re such a brilliant, charming snake. How did I get so lucky?”

Crowley’s entire face goes red at his words and he has to resist the overwhelming urge to hide behind his sunglasses as he would have done pre Apocalypse-that-didn’t-happen. “Oi, it’s too early in the morning for all that rubbish, angel.”

The potted flowers on the center of the kitchen table bloom spontaneously, sending forth a wave of pure _adoration _to the angel. Aziraphale says nothing about the miracle, choosing instead to settle into the chair beside Crowley. 

As they eat, Aziraphale’s left hand drifts to Crowley’s. The demon freezes up at first but eagerly threads his fingers with Aziraphale’s below the table once his brain catches up, still spearing food onto his fork with his left hand.

“Hey, Aziraphale?” Crowley asks between a mouthful of egg and toast, tongue darting out to wipe away at any crumbs. While he didn’t normally partake in eating—it was enjoyable, but given his snake-like origins, he only really craved food every few weeks or so—he always ate whenever Aziraphale cooked.

“Hmm?”

“Do you think…” he trails, making a distinctly inhuman noise of frustration. Why was it so damn difficult to voice his feelings? “That is to say, well… do you think I could stay over here? Today. Tomorrow. For however long the Tadfield lot are in London?” It’s still not quite what he wanted to say, but it’s close.

If Aziraphale were able to read his thoughts, he would have heard something like this: _I get lonely. I like sleeping in your bed while you read beside me. I like listening to classical music on your gramophone while we drink and talk. I like you—have loved you for millennia. And haven’t we wasted enough time? Why stop here? Why do I go back to my flat when I only want to spend my time with you? Let me be selfish just this once, angel. Let me want something I can have—something I get to keep. _

Because that was the truth, wasn’t it? A cycle spanning six thousand years of change, loss, and pain. Only Aziraphale as a constant, as an anchor, as someone he could dare to love. Crowley can’t help but think of all those bright-eyed, doomed children of destiny he’d met and loved and lost.

Eve and her dark, cunning eyes. Her sharp wit and boisterous laugh. He hadn’t even known she would die—could die from natural causes—until she was sick with fever and calling out for Abel and then Cain. For the child she buried and his murderer. Who thanked the Serpent of Eden with her dying breath and asked to see again, on the other side.

(Crowley never did get to see Eve again—she did not go to Hell like so many stuffy theologians assumed. She had always been Heaven bound, a soul that burned too brightly to ever be snuffed out by a demon. Crowley even named one of his favorite stars after her. He still hoped she could see it, up in Heaven.)

The carpenter’s son born in Bethlehem, a man made of divine stock, but who chose to walk on blistered feet, to live as a human. A man who cried and bled and taught and laughed and healed, and, most importantly, loved. Who was betrayed in a garden while his closest friends—who meant to guard him—slept as peacefully as the dead. He was martyred for the Ineffable Plan, all the while begging God to forgive his persecutors. Crowley had tempted him, shown him all the wonders of the earth, desperate to save him because thirty-three was still so young, but it had only made him love humanity more. He treated Crowley as an equal, called him _friend_, shared food with him—and then he was just another casualty of Heaven, gone to the one place where a demon could never follow.

Anathema, a woman after his own heart. She was—still is—so full of wit and vigor. She had forgiven him for running her over with his car fairly quickly and their friendship had blossomed afterwards. They connected upon their shared burdens, the curse of who they were born to be. Anathema with her encyclopedic knowledge of the future, a child turned Oracle, no one asking if it was what she wanted for herself, yet still unable to live in the present without a twinge of guilt. Crowley understood that pain; he was a good demon, knew how to plant discord amongst the greatest amount of humans, could cause chaos on a global scale if he chose to do so, but stilled his hand at petty inconveniences because he didn’t actually want to damn all of humanity to Hell. He hadn’t wanted to be a demon anymore than Anathema had wanted to be burdened with translating Agnes’ riddles about the end of the world.

Crowley came to her and Newt’s cottage fairly regularly, swapping tales long into the night, miracling their glasses full until they were a three-person pile on the couch, all laughter and teasing snark. He liked those nights when he could pretend to be human, pretend that his only worry was whether Anathema would end up drooling on his sleeve. After sobering up, he’d snap his fingers to miracle the two humans to bed, banishing any nightmares either might have in their sleep. It was the best he could do, as a demon. But it wasn't enough to quiet the voice in his head that told him he was hurting them by being their friend. That he would hurt them, inevitably, because it was what he was born to do. What he was good at. 

Adam, the Antichrist who named his hellhound _Dog _(a rather utilitarian name, in Crowley’s opinion, which he liked), and ate ice cream, and rode a bike, and played pretend with his friends like any other 11 year old, who had the power to turn the seas to blood and burn the world to ash, but chose to save it instead. The epitome of humanity, another rebellious child created for destruction, who loved and was loved and was saved by love. Who did not bend to fate, but rather, bent fate in his favor.

They were all children of destiny, pawns in God’s Ineffable Plan. And they had died, would die, with time. Crowley had mourned, still mourned, for those already lost, knowing fully well that they would go off to Death’s other kingdom and he’d be here, on earth, forever. He had thought it would be a lonely forever, a lifetime of loss—and it was, to some extent. But he also had someone. 

There was Aziraphale. He understood Crowley’s pain, the suffering that came with outliving everything and everyone. And he stayed beside him, wouldn’t leave—had never really left him, even at the worst of their spats. Crowley’s sure that if he had called for him at any point, the angel would have undoubtedly come running.

Over the millennia he had gotten letters delivered by couriers, letters delivered by postmen, postcards also delivered by postmen, email, and now, recently (as in two weeks ago when Anathema and Newt had come to Soho and Anathema had—with a patience beyond even an infernal demon—taught Aziraphale how to use a cellphone), texts, from Aziraphale.

(Memorably, Aziraphale had once sent a message entirely in Morse code asking for fashion advice. Crowley had responded cheekily, of course, in French.)

Most of his correspondences were usually a bit nonsensical, mentioning some new dish he wanted Crowley to try, but they had always ended the same: _With Love, Aziraphale. _It hadn’t seemed overtly romantic at the time given that Aziraphale was a being of love, after all, but now, knowing just how much the angel had sacrificed—his place Above, his fragile faith in Heaven, a sense of belonging—Crowley realized the enormity of his words. Aziraphale had been saying, in his own roundabout way, that he had _chosen_ Crowley to love. He wrote letters to Crowley _with _love, not because of love. It was an act of love, every letter, every trinket enclosed, as if to say: _I’m here, thinking of you. I want you to know this. Even though loving you could kill us both if anyone were to find out, I still do. I was told to love everything good and I've decided that includes you, you wily serpent. _

“So, yeah,” Crowley mutters, looking everywhere but at Aziraphale’s face. “Didn’t mean to put you on the spot. If you need time to think about it, that’s fine. I can go and—“

Aziraphale interrupts him with a frantic shake of his head. His eyes were wet with unshed tears as he reaches for Crowley, squeezing his hand in gentle reassurance, thumb tracing the skin there reverently. “You can stay for as long as you want. Whether that’s a few days… or a few centuries. Or forever. You’ve always had a home with me, Crowley.”

Crowley feels the sting of tears in his eyes. Usually, he’d miracle them away. But this time… he smiles, cries, lets himself collapse into Aziraphale’s lap, presses his face against the crook of his neck, and _feels. _His mind, for the moment, does not linger anxiously on thoughts of the future or regrets of the past.

He is here, warm and safe in an angel’s embrace. And, for the first time, he lets himself think of home as something tangible, something that won’t be taken from him. He thinks of home as wherever Aziraphale is—he always has, really. But he’s ready to admit it—and that makes all the difference. When Aziraphale tucks a white wing behind Crowley's shoulder, Crowley does the same, his black wing pressing against the soft fabric of Aziraphale's night shirt.

They are both broken in different ways, broken in a million small, intricate ways, fragile as eggshell, but they can heal. Together.

**Author's Note:**

> hope y'all enjoyed this fic; it was my first time writing these two, so hopefully i did them adequate justice. 
> 
> if u ever feel like chatting abt good omens w/ someone equally enthused, come say hi on my main tumblr @lux-mentis.


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